


blood in my ears and a fool in the mirror

by boxedblondes



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Bloodplay, F/F, Masturbation, POV Eve Polastri, POV Third Person, Post-3x06, yes this is a pwp but it's also a pwf (porn with feelings)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24263101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxedblondes/pseuds/boxedblondes
Summary: It’s nothing like it was on the bus, an instinctive action without foresight, without an answer to the question of What next? That kiss was short and loveless, a gesture and a surprise for them both. This time, Eve closes her eyes and takes it slow.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 38
Kudos: 324





	blood in my ears and a fool in the mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote and edited this in about 12 hours and I really have no excuse for what the absolute DROUGHT of V/E scenes this season has done to me. ✊😔 
> 
> \- This is my first sexy fic in a While so pls be kind  
> \- I've added a few songs to [my Villaneve playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7LdkLPTDFNMF8rxYkyNV0P?si=DuIwJZhJTRCE9-Q5reWsqA) and it is, in fact, a delicious accompaniment to this fic  
> \- Warnings for blood, references to canon-typical murder, and a brief mention of N*ko
> 
> Title from "Fast Slow Disco" by St. Vincent

It’s little more than a hunch that has Eve changing her ticket so she can stay in Barcelona for another day or two, but it’s enough. Hunches brought her here, after all. Hunches are all she has at this point. 

There’s just something about the deaths, the pattern of it all, that feeds her suspicions so generously. The copycat spice shop kill was in Spain, as was the double murder of the wealthy housewife and her nanny that recently splashed its way across the news headlines. The Lyon kill was an anomaly, of course, but its existence suggests that Villanelle’s still living somewhere in Europe. And this Dasha woman – who Eve just _knows_ had something to do with what happened to Niko, even if she wasn’t the one pulling the metaphorical trigger – lives in Barcelona. So where else would Villanelle be?

It takes an exhausting two hours of playing phone tag in the departures terminal of the airport for Eve to get a hold of an actual address. Konstantin won’t answer his phone (even though Eve _knows_ he knows where Villanelle lives), and Carolyn’s secretary keeps putting her on hold and then just _never taking her off_. 

For a brief moment, Eve entertains calling Villanelle outright. It could work, she reasons – because when has Villanelle ever been able to resist an invitation – or it could very well get her killed. Thankfully, Carolyn calls her back before she makes the stupid decision. 

“Mo said you hung up,” Carolyn says by way of greeting.

“Uh, yeah.” Eve rolls her eyes. “He kept putting me on hold.”

“Well, you know I’m very busy, Eve. I can’t cater to your every whim.”

 _Whim_ , Eve mouths angrily to herself. “I need to find Villanelle.”

“Yes, I could assume that much.”

“So where is she? Where does she live?”

“Which would you like to know?” Carolyn asks. “Where she _is_ or where she _lives_?”

Her poker face – well, poker disembodied-phone-voice in this case – is endlessly infuriating. Eve bites her tongue and concedes. “Where does she live?” she asks.

“I can send you her address,” Carolyn says. “If you’re absolutely sure about this. But don’t forget she tried to kill you last time you were together.”

 _Actually_ , Eve thinks, _last time we were together, we caused a scene on a public bus. And I kissed her. So there._

“Yes,” she says instead. “I’m sure.”

Carolyn sighs. “What are you planning, Eve?”

“I just want to talk to her.” They both know very well that it's a lie.

–

Villanelle’s house is entirely unexpected and, at the same time, entirely _her_. It’s grand, ostentatious, an obvious symbol of power and wealth – everything Villanelle’s always wanted. Yet as Eve walks deeper and begins peering into rooms, Villanelle’s quirks make themselves endearingly known.

The closet is full of expensive, outrageous clothing, things that would look terrible on anyone else but are undoubtedly beautiful on Villanelle. And every available surface is a clutter of things: perfume bottles, wine glasses, paperweights, loose pens and sheafs of paper. The walls are hung with a mishmash variety of abstract art, some of which Eve thinks she recognizes from the Paris apartment, and there are mirrors _everywhere_ , leaning up against walls and balanced precariously atop bookcases.

Eve thinks about smashing them. She thinks about opening Villanelle’s fridge to see if it’s still stocked with nothing but champagne. She thinks about sipping luxuriously from a bottle as she lies amongst glittering shards of mirror, a million versions of herself watching each other across the floor. 

It’s hard not to think of such things, not to remember snooping around Villanelle’s apartment in Paris and doing her valiant best to destroy every beautiful thing in there. 

Villanelle’s not here, of course. Eve could tell that the moment she walked in, the house sitting still and hollow with the absence of its occupant. Eve wonders when she’ll get back. Where she is. What she’s doing right now, this very instant. Eve thinks she knows, just a little bit, how this is going to go down. She knows what they’ve been building to.

And because this is them, because their timing – though off in every other regard – is always spot-on when it comes to tipping points and grand gestures, she doesn’t have to wait long. Barely more than an hour has passed when a key turns in the lock and Villanelle enters the sitting area to drop her bags on the couch.

It takes her a moment to realize Eve’s there, perched comfortably in an armchair. When she does, her brow creases for just a beat too long. Her face settles quickly back into a neutral expression, but Eve has already seen the weariness hiding behind it.

“Eve,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

Excellent question. Eve smiles. “I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” Villanelle musters up a mischievous grin of her own. “Is it because of what happened on the bus?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Oh, so are you going to fight me again?” Villanelle asks. She’s still smiling, but Eve can tell there’s a genuine concern in the question. It throws her for a second.

“Am I going – ? No, of course not.”

“Good.” Villanelle sits on the edge of the coffee table, knees just barely touching Eve’s. She smiles again, a brief and painful-looking flash of teeth. “Because I am not in very good fighting shape at the moment.”

Eve frowns. “What happened?”

“A lot.” Villanelle opens her eyes comically wide for emphasis. “A _lot_.”

“Villanelle,” Eve says. It feels good to say it, her name to her face – intimate and yet strangely familiar. She’s missed this, just the two of them in one space with no one trying to kill the other.

Villanelle’s eyes are still wide, but now genuinely so. _She’s thinking_ , Eve realizes. _She doesn’t know what’s going to happen next_. Well, neither does Eve. It’s about time she gave in to total freefall.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Villanelle asks. “If you’re not planning on fighting me.”

“Do you want me to?”

Her gaze turns soft, earnest. “Of course I do.”

“Me, too,” Eve admits. It’s less scary than she thought it would be, saying it out loud like that. It’s a relief more than anything, a long, slow exhale.

“What about your husband?” 

Eve laughs. “Like that’s ever stopped you before.”

“It’s always stopped _you_.” And Villanelle’s still watching her so carefully, her whole body still. _Since when are you serious?_ Eve thinks. _Since when are you sincere?_

And then Eve thinks of her husband lying in his hospital bed, tubes and wires surrounding his body like a minefield. She thinks of the way he looked at her, even in that state, with an expression that was nothing but pure, unbridled disdain. Mute, bedbound, in pain and paralyzed – and still, it was written all over him.

“He doesn’t want me,” she says now. “He doesn’t want me anymore.”

The words strike something deep inside her and fill her up with some strange, long-forgotten emotion. Much, much later she will identify it quite simply as _freedom_. 

“He doesn’t want me,” she says again, just to revel in it. “And I don’t want him.”

“Are you sure?” Villanelle asks.

And then, because she _is_ sure, more sure than words can say, Eve leans forward to kiss her. 

It’s nothing like it was on the bus, an instinctive action without foresight, without an answer to the question of _What next?_ That kiss was short and loveless, a gesture and a surprise for them both. This time, Eve closes her eyes and takes it slow. 

Villanelle’s mouth is warm and softer than it has any right to be. Eve slathers on chapstick all day, every day, and still her own lips remain dry and flaky. It’s horrifically unfair, and she takes out her frustration by catching Villanelle’s lower lip between her teeth. It’s more of a nip than a full-on bite, but it feels good. Powerful.

She opens her mouth a little wider, dips her tongue out so she can feel _and_ taste at the same time. Villanelle doesn’t taste like much, just salt and skin, but Eve devours her anyway. Villanelle laughs a little, and it catches in Eve’s teeth, delicate and almost unbearably sweet.

She pulls back. “Are you seriously laughing at me?”

“No, Eve,” Villanelle says, eyes bright and full of mirth. “You’re just so unexpected.”

She moves in for another kiss, but Eve leans back to keep herself out of reach. Villanelle blinks at her. “Playing hard to get?” she asks.

“No.” Eve shakes out her left arm, winces. “I don’t know if you remember, but you shot me in the back a few months ago.”  
“And?”

“ _And_ , it hurts. So if you want to continue this – ” she gestures vaguely into the space between them, “then we need to find somewhere where I don’t have to crouch like a gremlin.”

Villanelle smiles wickedly. “Just say, ‘Take me to bed,’ Eve. It’s much easier.”

“Never.”

As she stands up, half-turning to brace her hand on the arm of her chair, Eve catches sight of blood blossoming bright and vermillion on the sheer fabric of Villanelle’s shirtsleeve. “Oh my god,” she says. “You’re bleeding.”

Villanelle looks down at her arm. “It’s nothing.”

It’s very obviously _not_ nothing, but they move to the bedroom anyway. Eve begins to unbutton Villanelle’s shirt under the guise of getting her naked, though it’s probably obvious she’s just trying to identify the source of the bleeding.

High up on Villanelle’s left arm is a two-inch gash, angry red and closed with a messy row of stitches. It’s fresh and obviously painful. When Eve reaches up to wipe away the bit of blood that’s slowly trickling down her bicep, Villanelle’s free hand flies up to intercept her. 

Like she’s trying to block her. Like she thinks Eve’s going to hurt her. It’s heartbreaking, and Eve is exaggeratedly tender as she finishes the motion, cleaning the blood away with a sweep of her thumb.

Villanelle’s hand retreats to rest against her stomach as she settles again, flat on her back. “Don’t worry about it,” she says.

 _I_ am _worried_ , Eve wants to say. But she knows Villanelle wouldn’t like that. Instead, as the next droplet of blood begins to bead up at the bottom of the cut, she bends her head down and licks it off.

Villanelle’s fingers, still half-reaching out toward her arm, twitch just a little. The movement would be imperceptible to almost anyone else, but not Eve.

Eve rolls the bitter taste of iron around on her tongue. She remembers the lipstick Villanelle gave her once upon a time, the sensation of that sharp little blade slicing open her lip. The feeling of being wanted, the pain of rejection.

Eve opens her mouth a bit wider and begins to tongue at the margins of the wound. It tastes exactly as she’d expect: like skin and sweat and rust. The nylon thread holding Villanelle’s skin together rasps against her tongue and catches on the dry parts of her lips.

Villanelle makes a soft sound, barely more than a breath, and her hand shifts against her stomach again – an ambiguous gesture that, nonetheless, screams its intention to go even further _down._

“You can,” Eve says, lifting her mouth just slightly off Villanelle’s arm. Her lips are slightly sticky. She wonders, wildly, what she must look like right now. Villanelle’s wide eyes are staring back fixedly at her like she’s afraid to move. 

Eve presses her mouth to Villanelle’s. “You can touch yourself if you want,” she says against her lips.

It’s a request and an ulterior motive all in one. It’s not that Eve doesn’t have _any_ idea what to do next, it’s just that she’d like to buy a little more time between _here_ and _there_. But the words do their trick. Villanelle exhales shakily, and Eve marvels at how she’s been rendered speechless. Her hand twitches again, unsure.

“Go on,” Eve says. 

So Villanelle does. Still looking right at Eve, she slides two fingers into her mouth. She wets them quickly, efficiently, and then slides her hand down her body and under the waistband of her pants.

Eve lifts her head a little higher so she can watch her, watch the way her wrist flexes and her forearm twists, just a little. Villanelle finally, _finally_ closes her eyes and if she were anyone else, Eve would think it’s out of self-consciousness, a desire to hide some part of herself away. As it is, Eve knows it’s a concession, albeit slight. _I trust you_ , she’s saying.

While she watches, Villanelle wriggles out of her pants and underwear, entirely unashamed in her desire. She lifts her hand to her mouth again, then works it back between her legs.

“Please,” she says to Eve. “Keep going.” 

Obedient, Eve licks a stripe up the center of her wound. She can hear the rustle of Villanelle’s other arm moving against the sheets, feel her chest rising and falling as her breath speeds up. 

Eve’s heart is racing, her whole body thrumming with adrenaline. She feels heady with it, hot and flushed all over. Her hands seek out the hem of Villanelle’s shirt, begin to pull it up. She wants to find _her_ scar, the one she gave her back in Paris. Before Villanelle shot her, before she’d killed a man to save a psychopath, before her life fell utterly and terribly apart.

When Villanelle realizes what she’s doing, what she’s looking for, her hands join Eve’s and together they get her shirt off and over her head. Eve bends to kiss the scar – so small for something that’s caused her so much trouble – and Villanelle’s hands come up to cradle her face. One is warmer than the other and slightly damp. It should be disgusting, but all it does is turn Eve on even more.

“You are something else,” Villanelle says. Her voice has gone all breathy, accent thicker than Eve’s ever heard it. “Eve, _Eve_.”

“Touch yourself,” Eve says, and bites at a hard ridge of scar tissue until Villanelle’s abdomen tenses against her mouth. “I want you to.”

“I can’t,” Villanelle says. “I’m too close.”

“I want you to come,” Eve says dreamily. “Please.”

She glances up. Villanelle looks about two breaths away from falling apart entirely. Her cheeks are flushed pink and splotchy, and she stares at Eve like she’s something holy. “I want you to make me,” she says.

So Eve kisses her and wonders if Villanelle can taste her own blood on Eve’s tongue. Then she moves to kneel between Villanelle’s legs, mindful of the stretch in her back. She’s never done this before, but she knows how – as instinctive as swinging an axe, as throwing a punch, as falling asleep.

With Eve’s mouth on her, Villanelle finally stops holding back, and the noises that she makes are sinful and delicious. Eve tongues at one particular spot that makes Villanelle’s thighs shake, and she thinks about how it would feel to die like this, suffocated in the heat of her. 

She remembers Villanelle’s obsession with her hair, and she reaches up blindly to find Villanelle’s hands – _Go on. It’s okay._ – and guide them down onto Eve’s head. She expects Villanelle to be rough, pull and tug until she tears Eve’s hair out by the roots. But Villanelle’s hands are shaky, reverent, and she simply strokes through the strands over and over.

Eve circles her fingers around the scar on Villanelle’s abdomen, and Villanelle begins to pant out a series of gaspy little _oh oh_ s at the contact. Eve can tell she’s getting close, so she sets a steady rhythm, working her fingers more firmly over the scar as she curls her tongue against Villanelle, over and over. She only manages a few seconds before Villanelle comes, shuddering, against Eve’s mouth.

It’s hopelessly, undeniably _hot,_ and Eve works her hand inside her own pants as Villanelle comes down. In this, she is not so out of her depth. Eve knows how to make herself feel good, that’s for sure. She moves her fingers in just the way she likes, a lifetime of muscle memory guiding her closer and closer to an orgasm of her own.

“Eve,” Villanelle says, the word riding out on the back of a sigh. “Eve. Eve.”

The way Villanelle says her name, debauched and reverent, pulls a whimper from Eve’s mouth. Villanelle’s eyes snap open, suddenly alert, and fix on where Eve’s wrist disappears under her waistband. “Eve,” she says again, sharper now. “Stop that.”

“It’s okay,” Eve says, the syllables pitching and falling like a ship in a storm. “I’m almost there.”

“I know,” Villanelle says. Her fingers clamp tight around Eve’s wrist and she forcefully pulls her hand out and away. “I can tell.”

“Fuck. What are you doing?” Eve is breathing heavily now, a handful of seconds away from what was promising to be a very good orgasm.

Villanelle unbuttons Eve’s pants and begins working them down her legs. “I’m returning the favor. Take off your shirt.” 

Oh. That seems a fair tradeoff, so Eve complies, tugging her sweater over her head and unhooking her bra with trembling, imprecise fingers. By the time she’s tossed it to the floor, she’s completely naked and Villanelle is staring at her with unabashed hunger.

“What do you want?” Villanelle asks. Her hair is loose, dishevelled, and her eyes are intense in a way that makes something in Eve’s stomach pulse warm and bright.

“I don’t know,” Eve says.

“Of course you do.”

But she doesn’t, not really. What she _wants_ is vague and messy, and it tangles meaninglessly in her brain. What she _wants_ is to come. Desperately.

Villanelle huffs, impatient as always, and slides one finger slowly inside her. No preamble.

“ _God_ ,” Eve gasps. 

“What do you want?” Villanelle asks again, mirth lurking at the corners of her eyes.

Eve focuses on the sensation of Villanelle’s body near her, against her, in her. Villanelle is entirely still, waiting for her answer. All Eve wants is for her to move, just a little – or actually, maybe, quite a bit. “More,” she says.

Villanelle works a second finger alongside the first, begins to move them in a rhythm that is slow and steady and heartbreaking all at once. Eve thinks of where else those fingers have been in the past half hour and her stomach bottoms out.

“More,” she says. Desperate and pleading. “More, more, _more_.”

It’s nothing like she would have expected. It’s so, so much better, _good_ in a way that feels decadent. Eve isn’t used to sex feeling like this, like more than just an expectation or a way to pass the time. She can tell Villanelle wants to make her feel good by the way her gaze keeps flickering back and forth between Eve’s face and all the other parts of her. Eve has never felt more exposed. She has never felt more in control.

“Villanelle,” she says.

Villanelle had been looking somewhere in the vicinity of Eve’s breasts, her free hand reverently tracing the puckered scar beneath her collarbone – the ghost of an exit wound – but when Eve speaks, Villanelle’s gaze snaps back up to her face.

“Is this alright?” she asks. 

And it’s hard to think, let alone speak, with the way Villanelle’s fingers are moving in and on and around her. Eve manages a nod. Pleasure is building up furiously inside of her, a thundercloud heavy and thick with lightning. Her hips keep moving of their own accord, thighs tensing and untensing in a glorious rhythm. Villanelle’s eyes are locked on hers now. Eve doesn’t think she’s blinked in quite some time, but it’s hard to tell with the way her own eyes keep slipping closed.

Eve gasps in a greedy gulp of air. “Kiss me,” she says as she breathes it out.

Villanelle does. She kisses her open-mouthed, tongue and teeth and lips chasing a trail over Eve’s mouth, her jaw, the curves and tendons of her neck. All the while, her fingers twist and curl and rub until Eve is sweating with it, bare back sticking to Villanelle’s expensive Spanish sheets. _I don’t want this to end_ , she thinks, and clutches her hands in fists around Villanelle’s soft, soft hair.

Everything is starting to go a little fuzzy around the edges and Eve squeezes her eyes shut tight. Villanelle kisses each of her eyelids, then each of her breasts, then sucks a long, slow kiss into the scar above Eve’s heart.

Eve comes hard, her body clamping down around Villanelle’s fingers. It feels like it goes on forever, and maybe it does. 

Afterward, she lies there panting, fighting to get her breath back. Villanelle smooths her hands over Eve’s face, her chest, the muscles twitching in her stomach and thighs. “Eve,” she keeps saying. “Eve, Eve. You were so good.”

“You weren’t too bad yourself,” Eve says after a while, voice raw. She laughs, high on endorphins. Villanelle noses her way into the curve of her neck and Eve lets her, shifts so Villanelle fits more comfortably against her shoulder. “God, what do we do now?”

“We get away,” Villanelle says. Her breath tickles against Eve’s bare skin. “Somewhere safe. Just the two of us.”

 _Just the two of them_. That sounds nice. “Is your heart still set on Alaska?” Eve asks. 

“Hmm, no.” Villanelle curls herself around Eve more securely, drags one of the tousled sheets up over them. “Somewhere warmer,” she says.

Eve’s lived in cold places all her life. She could do warmer. “Okay,” she says, sleepy and reckless. “Let’s run away together, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Is this how season 3 will end? Probably not, but a girl can dream.
> 
> I am on tumblr [@boxedblondes](https://boxedblondes.tumblr.com/).


End file.
